Epicenter
by trufflemores
Summary: 2.10. Barry worries he's putting his loved ones in danger.


Hitting a wall of plasma at eight hundred miles an hour saves his life.

It's a relatively plastic medium. It allows him to come to an abrupt but not lethal halt as his limbs catch up to his momentum and freeze. Anger incinerates pain, the concrete consistency of his lungs ignored as he pushes forward. He can't run fast, so he pushes hard, setting his shoulder against the thick, inertial seam separating them and fighting for every step.

His lungs scream for air, his bones ache under the compression, and he thinks his heart might explode if he doesn't _slow down_.

But they don't call him _The Flash_ because he's fast. They call him The Flash because he saves people's lives in those seconds between life and death. He's not a hero because he can do extraordinary things; he's a hero because he can beat extraordinary odds. 

_That_ is why he fights the paradox they're gridlocked in with every fiber of his being.

 _What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?_

The answer: mutual annihilation.

The Turtle falters when Barry does not, and the immovable object collapses. Smashing into him with enough force to stop a train, Barry catapults the Turtle into a pillar, knocking him out.

He heaves for breath, head spinning, lungs on fire, hands on his knees as he doubles over for several thousand milliseconds, trying to regain his composure. Breathing hurts: capillaries around his lungs burst from the pressure and he's bleeding, but it doesn't matter, he _has_ to breathe no matter how hard it is or how much it hurts; air is air and he _needs it_. There are dozens of hairline fractures wailing for his attention, but he stays on his feet, trembling.

At last, when hyperventilating feels less like hyperventilating, he looks up. Necessity carries him to Patty's side. He grabs the knife – sees red, thinks about the Turtle's intentions, pushes it down again; he'll compartmentalize it later – and frees her. Her arms catch him around the middle, hugging hard, and he holds her, trembling muscles shaking hard against her shoulders.

"It's okay," he rasps, voiceless, unable to put any strength behind the words. He doesn't even know if she hears them at all, hugging her and willing her to understand him. "It's okay now. You're safe."

"Thank you," she says, voice quivering. "Whoever you are. Thank you."

"You're okay now," Barry promises. He thinks, _unmask_ , but he can't bring himself to let go of her. Words coagulate in his throat. Thunder pounds in his chest. Unsure if he's up to carrying her, he adds, "Let's go home. Okay? Come on."

He helps her gently to her feet, and he's aware that his vocal chords aren't vibrating, his voice is concealed only by its rawness, but Patty doesn't comment on it. She lets him tuck an arm under her shoulders, half-hug, half-crutch, as they step outside of the antiquities library.

As they walk, he channels the last of his strength into sending out a quick text to Caitlin – _knocked out needs pickup taking Patty home_ – before diverting the remainder of his attention to Patty.

It isn't much – he's tanked out – but she doesn't talk much. She shivers and he's taking on more of her weight when she sinks towards the ground.

"Hey, hey. It's okay," he tells her, voice scorched. "Let's go home, okay?"

"You saved my life."

"Let's go home," Barry reiterates, scooping her up gently and _ah-hah,_ that hurts, but she locks her arms around his neck and they're off.

It occurs to him as he zips down the streets that he can't actually take her home – he isn't supposed to know where she lives – so he does the next best thing. He takes her to Jitters. It's late enough that Iris is closing up shop, startling when they come to a halt and scatter napkins across the floor. "Sorry," he says automatically, setting Patty down gently.

Iris turns, her fingers going numb around a rag. "Ba—oh my god, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Barry replies, voice modulated to its metallic inflection. It brings out the coppery tastes in his mouth; he does his best to ignore it. "I need your help."

"Anything," Iris says, looking him directly in the eye. Barry knows she means it, too, which is why he's grateful his next request is so simple.

"Take her home, please."

Patty leans against him, but he's not projecting warmth like he should be: he's cold, tapped out. He needs a hot shower and a thick bed and maybe twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. If he gets half as many hours and a cozy spot on the floor, he'll consider it a fair compromise.

Iris steps forward, already shrugging on a coat and grabbing her keys. "Of course," she says softly. Patty lets go of him, numb, while Iris puts a comforting arm around her waist.

Barry takes off before either of them can persuade him to stay, collapsing in an alleyway three blocks away and heaving against the pavement, raw knuckles pressed against the asphalt.

 _That was too close._

He should never have brought Patty to the ceremony. Caitlin was right: mixing business with pleasure always put people at risk. Patty should have been home, enjoying a relaxing evening with him; or at a bowling alley, similarly displaced. Anywhere but the epicenter, blissfully unaware that there was any danger when he _knew_ an earthquake was coming.

They had a plan. Set a trap, let Turtle tip the switch, and take him down. Then Turtle decided to throw in a wild card, firing rounds at the base of the chandelier until it broke.

In real time, it took three seconds to fall.

For Barry, it seemed to fall forever.

He remembers it in snapshots – running down the staircase, being frozen, pushing forward, feeling the strain in his muscles – at the base of the stairs and he's _not going to be fast enough he's not going to be fast enough_ – almost there, almost there, _almost there_ –

Then all two hundred and fifty pounds of glass shatters over him and the tape cuts off.

It's probably a good thing that he woke up in Star Labs, sore but sturdy. He healed in his sleep. (Except he _overslept_ , fuck.) What would have been an irreplaceable loss became instead a momentary sacrifice.

Except Patty didn't know who he was or why he'd abandoned her. She'd been upset, and he'd tried, he'd tried to make things better but he didn't know how and he knew he wasn't making progress.

He once heard an apology is supposed to have three parts.

Step one. _I'm sorry_.

He shrugs on his coat, heading back towards Patty's place.

 _It was my fault._

The night air is cool and crisp, refreshing, and he takes his time.

 _How can I make it better?_

She's not _there_ —

" _Barry? Barry!_ "

Barry pants breathlessly, struggling to his feet. "I'm here," he says, "I'm coming."

Flash – for them, it's seconds; for him, it's ages – and then he's standing in the center of the Star Labs main lab, trembling feet not wanting to support him as he staggers forward. "Did you get Turtle?" he asks, coughing blood, and Caitlin's voice is strong and clear, alarmed, as she puts an arm under _his_ shoulders, steering him towards a table.

"Yeup, he's in lockdown," Cisco answers, passing him a water bottle. "How's Patty?"

"Alive," Barry says, passing the crumpled bottle back at him. It barely even touched his lips. Cisco refills it in a nearby sink without a word.

"You shouldn't have done that," Harrison says softly, stormy, as he approaches from the corner of the room.

Barry stares at him in disbelief; there's iron in his tone and teeth when he speaks. "He would have killed Patty."

"What if he had killed _you_?" Harrison presses ruthlessly. "Who will stop Zoom if you're dead, Barry?"

There's a dark shadow in his eyes, something sinister, unreadable, and Barry thinks, _What happened to you?_

Harrison walks off with a curt, "I'm going to check on the particle accelerator," not giving any of them an opportunity to respond.

Barry watches him leave, clearing his throat thickly and ignoring the stethoscope Caitlin presses against his chest.

"Cait," he tells her, gentle but heavy, "it's fine."

Cisco passes him the newly restored water and Barry downs it in less time than it takes for him to hand it off.

"Damn," Cisco says, impressed and surprised. "Someone's thirsty."

Barry thinks, _My chest is on fire_ , but he doesn't say it. He's healing. It's just the electricity at work. Sometimes it's soft and warm and comforting; other times it's static, muting what it can't reduce. He couldn't run if he tried, but at least he can hold a conversation with a semblance of normalcy.

Caitlin flashes a light in his eyes and Barry can't help his frustration. "Cait. It's fine."

"Your pupils are uneven," she tells him, nonplussed, "did he hit you?"

"It's fine," Barry repeats, taking the third water bottle from Cisco and draining half of it. "Thanks," he adds belatedly.

"You should slow down," Jay recommends, piping in from his corner for the first time. He advances towards the center of the room, adding, "You did the right thing."

"Risking my life for a friend?" Barry says dryly. "Wouldn't have done any _other_ thing."

Totally focused on her job, Caitlin asks, "When's your birthday?"

Barry sighs, closing his eyes.

"Barry."

"Can we please not—" He finishes off the water, feeling abruptly full, overfull, and exhales slowly. "I'm tired."

"You have a concussion," Caitlin says.

"I have super speed. It'll heal," Barry dismisses, climbing to his feet slowly. "Anything else I need to know?"

"You can't leave," Caitlin protests, putting a hand on his arm. "Just because you have super speed doesn't mean—"

He takes off before she can finish her sentence, preferring the burn of electricity to the pounding behind his eyes.

. o .

Barry doesn't know how long he's out. Hours, maybe.

When he hears Iris open the front door, Barry tries and fails to sit up.

The couch is too comfortable. His limbs are too heavy. A thousand other reasons line up eagerly to present themselves; he stuffs them into a drawer marked _to burn_ and ignores them, keeping as still as he can on the couch, facedown and still partially suited up.

"How's Patty?" he asks, listening to Iris undo her coat, slide off her shoes.

"Shaken up." A scarf whispers as she unravels it, draping it over a coat hanger, and then the couch dips near his legs as she sits beside him. "What about you?" she asks, resting a hand on his calf.

"I'm fine," he says, somewhat unconvincingly, given that he won't actually look at her. "Just been a long day. What with a meta-human trying to kill my girlfriend twice _and_ disappointing said girlfriend while putting her in danger."

"Sounds like a day," Iris agrees, a hand rubbing slowly up his back. "You didn't tell her."

It isn't a question. "No." Then, feeling some of the emotion resurfacing, he adds slowly, "I just – it never was the right time."

"Bar." She traces hypnotic zigzags across his spine. "Keeping it from her – doesn't protect her."

He sighs, partially in agreement, partially out of appreciation for the way she traces patterns across his back. "I know." His voice is heavy, slightly muted by the couch itself.

It's easier to not speak, to just let her be there beside him and enjoy her presence. Enjoy her unasked and undeserved kindness.

 _Patty could have died tonight because you couldn't tell her you were dangerous_.

It's painfully apparent to him how intrinsically linked danger and his lifestyle are. Magnets stick together by attracting opposite charges: Barry thinks the same principle applies to his life and its tendency towards attracting the wrong sort of people. No matter how _good_ his life gets, there will always be a reverse side to it. He can have people he loves; but he also plays all-or-nothing games every time he runs up against a meta-human.

Once, he thought that super speed meant he would never have to worry about being hurt by another person again. He would never lose the people he loved because he was so much faster than anyone around him. He was untouchable. _Unstoppable_.

But there were plenty of people – 30-Something-Not-Ninja-Turtles – who had proven the opposite was true. His speed didn't protect him; it only gave him a competitive edge, something he could work with, something he had to learn and refine if he wanted to use it. There were others like him – powerful others he could never have imagined – who were faster than him, stronger than him. Many of them were less breakable; even more had less to lose. Being fast didn't mean he was invincible; it just meant that he stood a fighting chance against other meta-humans.

"I can't let Zoom hurt anyone because of me," Barry says, lulled into giving voice to it. The nightmare. "I can't let him near you, or Patty, or Joe, or _anyone_ because of me."

"That's not your choice," Iris responds quietly.

Barry turns over, squinting up at her. "What do you mean?" he asks.

Her hand settles on his knee, comforting, _there_ , and he hasn't appreciated how helpful it is to actually have someone there in the aftermath. To not have to pretend it didn't happen.

"Zoom makes that call," Iris answers, her hand stilling against the center of his back. "You aren't responsible for what he does. And you aren't responsible for what you can't stop, Barry." Tugging on his sleeves until he sits up and meets her gaze, she takes his hands and gives them a light squeeze. "We're all scared, Barry. None of us know how we're going to stop him. But we're adults. We have lives, too. Our decisions to be close to you and work with you to stop him don't make us your responsibility. We're a _team_. And . . . if you want Patty to be safe, then – you need to let her be a part of the team. She has to know or she'll never know what to be ready for."

"I can't put her in danger."

"You also can't be responsible for everything Zoom does," Iris counters, squeezing his hands. "I know you take it personally when you can't save someone, but you're _not_ the reason they died. They died because a terrible thing happened. Someone pulled the trigger. An accident happened. Something went _wrong_. Not being able to prevent that doesn't mean you failed or that you killed them. You're not responsible for their deaths. And you won't be responsible for anything that happens to us, either."

"I can't lose you, Iris," he says softly.

Iris releases his hands to cradle his face, pulling him down ever-so-slightly to kiss his forehead. "You're not going to," she promises.

He relaxes, eyelids fluttering shut, even after she lets him go. He thinks she'll get up and go to bed – he should, too, but the couch is too comfortable; his limbs are too heavy – but she just settles against his side, tugging a blanket over them and letting him fold her in his arms, tucking her own around his waist.

Torn between two lives – aching like the Flash, still wearing his suit if not his mask; but being able to settle down for the night as _Barry_ – he thinks that Iris is right.

They're a team.

The only way they're going to keep _each other_ safe is together.

And as the lightning runs under his skin, healing, fixing, rebuilding, it cycles between them, shifting from warm to cold, forming a tangible connection. She falls asleep against his chest. He slowly follows suit, sleep pressing down on him until he can't keep his eyes open and, still emitting soft waves of heat, he goes under.

The last thought he has before sleep is:

 _We're a team._

 _And we're going to get through this._

. o .

("Team" is also the reason why he buys Caitlin and Cisco a big batch of muffins as a thank-you in the morning. Both, graciously, accept.)


End file.
